Brototype
by Ledu
Summary: Can't remember names? World crashing down around you? Just turn your arms into Play-Doh and make like a blender. An interpretation of the events of the game, with an emphasis on interpretation.
1. Taxicab Antichrist

There was only black.

The red crept in, flashing, morphing. _Noise_.

Countless horizontal lines ran across the black. _Helicopter._

Islands of white symbols erupted, worms writhing at them, corroding until they bled back into the black. _Gas mas_ k.

Hat _red_.

Ce _ll_ s.

Beloved, though _pro_ digal.

A single warm tone supported the _mass_.

The churning _stop_ ped for a moment, a single word crad _led_ by _br_ acket _s_.

Bel _o_ w, another _pulsati_ ng message.

Shortly, the first shapes came into being, centered around a whirling disk of _re_ d.

The mono _t_ one ended, splitting into slow waves and dying screams. Crystals rang out before the saw.

Hoo _ded_.

The waves crashed and swirled. From the _corp_ se a storm began to brew.

Jacket.

The voices pleaded, begging for life. Here arrives the theme. Clean and dist _or_ tion fought until dark won out.

Too many co _ll_ ars.

With every mask st _it_ ched on, the dead choir finished, and the world sprung into focus pro _perly_.

* * *

N.Y.C. Taxi 3T50 was not having a good day. Due to tax cuts and general disrepair of Manhattan's infrastructure it had become stuck in one heck of a pothole. Presently, a mass of red vines (or some say twizzlers) was aggressively growing over it, dragging it further into the earth for some nefarious purpose. It creaked in protest, hoping to gain the attention of a group of gun-toting fellows who happened to be bumbling down the same street. One Captain Johnson looked over at it as the overgrowth continued.

"All clear" came his voice, crackling through the radio.

The taxi could only groan as the corn syrup, wheat flour, sugar, cornstarch, and 2% or less of palm oil, salt, artificial flavor, glycerin, citric acid, potassium sorbate (preservative), artificial color (red 40), and soy lecithin continued its steady growth. Sad violin music played as the soldiers marched on and away down Canal Street, leaving the taxi to its fate. Little did they know what lurked on the rooftop above, hunched over and mumbling to himself.

"My name is Alex Mercer," said Alex Mercer, who happened to be on the rooftop above, hunched over and mumbling to himself. "I'm the reason for all of this."

Having learned who was responsible for the fine mess it had gotten itself into, N.Y.C Taxi 3T50 would have honked its horn had the twizzlers not craftily cut the wires moments ago.

Alex Mercer continued. "They call me a killer, a monster, a terrorist." He rose from his half-squat, posture as poor as ever. "I'm all of these things," he muttered, before taking a step off of the rooftop and plummeting to the street. Instead of going splat like most human-shaped entities, he made the street go splat, sending up a huge cloud of dust and hurling N.Y.C Taxi 3T50 (among other less important cars) flying about. Flipped-turned upside down and sitting right there with one door very nearly torn off, albeit miraculously cleansed of the red vine infestation, the poor cab was not at its best.

"You're pretty fat too. Jesus, what'd you eat for breakfast?" it said to Alex Mercer in the secret car language. Alex Mercer just gave it a dirty look for a moment, his hood flopping dramatically, before running like hell. The military squad likely noticed him and readied their battle cellos, the simple yet haunting song echoing throughout the city.

Somebody was busy being dead and also a zombie while his eye was plucked out by a crow as Alex Mercer ran past, sending newspapers flying. Alex Mercer's intended route of escape was intercepted by another taxi, a friend of N.Y.C 3T50.

" **EY WHAT THE FUCK YOU SICK FILTHY ANIMAL CAN'T A TAXI BE PARKED AROUND HEAH WITHOUT SOME JACKOFF CHUCKIN' IT AROUND** " it cried in righteous anger as Alex Mercer approached, vaulting over another unimportant non-taxi car. Unfortunately, Alex Mercer did not speak the secret car language and just fucking jumped on the taxi's roof like a trampoline as he flew upwards and onwards, crushing it into a shape of flatness and scattering glass all over the place for somebody else to pick up.

A moment of slow motion and fish-eye occurred as the battle cellos grew to a crescendo, the newspapers fluttering as though caught in a hurricane before Alex Mercer returned to the pavement, creating another pothole for another taxi to get stuck in and restart the cycle. He continued his monologue, this time with something of a non sequitur.

"Three weeks ago someone released a lethal virus in Penn Station." Yet another taxi looked on in horror at Alex Mercer's transporticidal rampage. He ignored it, opting to hop up on top of a truck, squashing it down too, before flinging himself at a light post to do a few sick loop-de-loops.

"I woke up in a morgue." The light was becoming rather bent out of shape, what with Alex Mercer leaving big ol' handprints all over it as he continued to orbit it. Finally he let himself go, the momentum launching him at a building with plenty of windows for him to stomp on as he ascended it.

"Now I hunt, I kill, I consume, I _become_." Alex Mercer's voice grew immeasurably more energetic as he leapt to another building, making a rooftop pothole and thwarting any flying taxis that the government might develop. "I'm gonna find out who did this to me... And I'm gonna make 'em pay." Perhaps Alex Mercer meant for them to pay the electric bill, for the entire world then went dark.


	2. Pre-rendered

Wait, no, the lights are coming back on. The taxi army had assembled, their headlights set to hi-beams as they collectively craved vengeance. Soldiers mingled around them, playing with their radios.

"Ghost Three Nine to ground, do you have target in sight? Over."

"I can't see **SHIT**."

"Oh ok. Uh, over."

But actually, Ground did see something because this lady wearing a poorly thought-out outfit came charging from an alleyway filled with a suspicious amount of garbage bags.

"HELP! HELP ME!" she hysterically cried at the group of goons with all their guns aimed at her. Their calls of "Freeze!" and "Don't move!" did nothing to stop her as she flung herself into the arms of Ground. The two went on to get married and had a lovely little family. Meanwhile back in the present some bald guy in torn clothes hopped on down the alley after this lady, only to start yelling.

" _AAAAAAAAAAAAAA_ " it called in its native tongue, summoning a group of oddly similar bald guys in torn clothing. There were some bald girls in torn clothing too but their heads looked like popcorn, so they might not actually be bald. "Raarrrrrgggggghhhhhhh!" another one replied. " **OOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUURARRRGH** " agreed a third. The group rushed forward at the gunmen.

"WALKERS, OPEN UP" Ground called to his buddies, and they shot a bunch of bullets at the ironically named walkers until they all died to death. One of the popcorn heads was just playing pretend and hopped up after the massacre, only for Ground himself to shoot it, sending it into a triple backflip before falling still. "We're clear. Move up. You," he said, gesturing to the unnamed lady, "with me." Love began to bloom on the battlefield.

But the lady didn't with him, because she was busy sobbing into her hands at the thought of never being able to enjoy a bowl of popcorn again. " _How cute_ " said Ground with a bit of an accent as he blushed through his helmet. However, the subtitle transcriptionist mistook it for "Her too." Ground's buddy, Crazy Bob, pulled out a pistol and manipulated it to make menacing pistol noises as a battle violin began to play ominous music. He aimed the gun at the lady's head with Ground just sorta standing there watching. Crazy Bob, being crazy, often did this as a means of greeting someone. A pull of the trigger and a toot of a battle tuba would have signaled the end of the lady's life had Alex Mercer not been there to stand around dramatically in the background. Crazy Bob's grip on the gun faltered, sending the bullet flying off, and unnamed lady fainted from all the stress but was otherwise unharmed.

"Hey guys, I'd just like to interject for just a moment and let you know that violence against women is not OK" said Alex Mercer.

"That's him!" cried Crazy Bob, pistol now facing Alex-Mercerwards. Ground also aimed his rifle at Alex Mercer, who just sorta stood there smirking before letting out a big red fartcloud as his arms turned into black Play-Doh™ tipped with big ol' spikes. Now properly armed, Alex Mercer rushed at the pair. Crazy Bob missed again and got his entire torso replaced with black Play-Doh™, and then shortly afterwards replaced with air and some blood. Alex Mercer then did a real slick blender impersonation and with a 180 degree spin gave Ground his current nickname of Ground Beef (he's okay though guys).

The other soldiers, Gus, Paul and Chuck all tried to shoot at Alex Mercer. Gus got tossed up in the air and was beside himself after Alex Mercer was finished with him, and while Paul's head was squashed, what really did him in was the bloodthirsty taxi militia after he was thrown at one. Chuck had a modicum of intelligence and sent a grenade tooting on over at Alex Mercer, only for Alex Mercer to swap from Swordmaster to Royal Guard real quick, Royal Block it, and then Royal Release on Chuck's ass.

However, Pvt. Herkimer had snuck up on Alex Mercer and used his strongest move, 「Bazooka Blast」, to finish him off. Alex Mercer just stood around dramatically looking at Chuck's remains before noticing Herkimer's rocket, but it was too late. The explosion coincided with another squeal of battle viola, and a huge puff of smoke went everywhere, increasing the chances of lung cancer for all involved. Herkimer put down his RPG launcher, content that him releasing Fallout 76™ would be enough to slay Alex Mercer where he stood.

The smoke spewing ruins were silent for a minute, aside from a cello groaning out Alex Mercer's leitmotif.

" _ **MEEEEEEEEEEEEE**_ **EEEEEEEE** _ **EEEEEEEEEEEEDIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII**_ **IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII** _ **IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIC**_ " came a cry from the smoke-spewing ruins. Herkimer bounded over to check on the unfortunate soul, medkits and monkfish ready to go. "Stay put, you div" he said in rahtha English ahccent. Soon enough he came across Ground, who was on his back against his namesake. Herkimer unsheathed his medkit with a plucky, "stand still, or I'll stick it where the sun don't bloody shine," before activating the Ally Revival Quick Time Event™. He yanked Ground up by the arm, only for Ground to slap his own arm (and the hand at the end of it) on Herkimer's shoulder.

"Where's your commanding officer?" asked Ground, awfully spry for someone who had been in such close proximity to an RPG going off.

"Sir, he's in Times Square." Herkimer spit out, his accent mysteriously subdued. "I'll call for transformers" was what he was going to say, but suddenly big ol' spikes shot up through everything above his sternum and he got cut off after "I'll call for trans..."

"That won't be necessary" said Ground as he revealed he had used his secret counter-move to Herkimer's 「Bazooka Blast」, called 「Be Alex Mercer」.

"Alex Mercer! I should have known all it was you all along!" was what Herkimer would have said if he wasn't gurgling away until his untimely demise. Alex Mercer walked away, leaving him there to keep his gurgling business to himself. Nobody likes a gurgler.

The sun rose very quickly over Manhattan. Only time would tell if nothing would ever be the same.


	3. Dreamin' bout dat Armageddon

Black.

 **Red**.

Lines.

Word.

 **Spin**.

Alex Mercer just sorta dropped outta the sky like my smile when I remembered the other story I have on here. Blackwatch dudes looked at him and pointed their shooty sticks his way, while Alex Mercer stood there dramatically, limbering himself up for a good ol' beatdown. One of the Blackwatch fellers made what could be interpreted as a rude gesture of pumping a fist up and down. Triggers were pulled, muzzles flared and bullets flew. A few minutes later, somebody yelled "HOSTILE SIGHTED, OPEN UP."

The sound of a record scratching was heard throughout the battlefield.

"Woah hey guys, it's me, Alex Mercer. You're probably wondering how I got into all of this. It's a bit of a long story, you see" said Alex Mercer, before his flailing fists tore through the group of highly trained professionals who stood waiting for him to punch them to death.

One violent episode later, Alex Mercer did a big jump on to a rooftop, hunched down, and started his monologue. "They took everything from me" he grumbled, gazing down at a marine slippin' and slidin' around like a ragdoll while being eaten by two bald men wearing torn clothes. "They're responsible." His view shifted to Blackwatch soldiers gunning down civilians and bald men wearing torn clothes alike.

Groaning with discomfort as the Play-Doh™ overcame him once more, Alex Mercer finished with a "and they'll pay!" The electric bill having apparently been taken care of, Alex Mercer was intent on getting gas and water out of the way too. Using his new big ol' claws he set to work hackin' and whackin' away at whatever meatbags wandered into his path, Wolverine™ copyright™ lawyers™ included. Sometimes he would also ride people like skateboards.

After wiping out all of the guys with little red skulls over their heads, Alex Mercer's arms changed once again into big ol' hands the size of his entire torso. An attempt at picking his nose resulted in disaster. Tanks were split in two, and Alex Mercer was juggled around for a while by two rocket launchers working in perfect unison.

 **BUT THEN BIG BALD BODY BUILDERS CAME TO TOWN**. With their romantic advances rejected by the popcorn headed ladies in torn clothing, the bald guys wearing torn clothing had eaten both their creatine™ and ovaltine™, gone to their gyms and become too swole to control. Now their torn clothing did not fit, and instead of being laughed at for being bald and scrawny, they were laughed at for being bald with weird goopy pink skin and teeny tiny uh eyes which were as small as their collective IQs. Presently, their juicing budget had gone towards keeping dramatic fade-to-black transitions from occurring, and they were capital-p **P** issed.

Alex Mercer's arms changed again, one back into a regular Alex Mercer arm and the other into a big ol' sword which he used to handily chop the big bald guys into smaller pieces of big bald guys until a blue arrow appeared over the head of some unfortunate Blackwatch commander.

Alex Mercer carved a bloody path on over to said commander, knocked him down and slapped him around. Once the meat was properly beaten, Alex Mercer had tentancles pop out, and the commander was eaten. "Time to end this" he said without missing a beat. Having had quite the treat, Alex Mercer got off his seat and sent out more tentacles down each street, causing a pause to the drumbeat. Everything and everyone was made uncreate, leaving Times Square rather neat save for the crumbling concrete. Alex Mercer's actions repeat as he strikes a dramatic pose, the kinetic theory of heat combined with the sun's heat to make him smell faintly of a mix of rose, Japanese bittersweet, western honey mesquite and basidiomycete and ensured that nowhere in the New York-ish area would there be any sleet. Yeet.

The unceasingly ravenous electric bill is barely paid in time, allowing Alex Mercer to do a very difficult drop into a rooftop scene during a black-out into a white-in. He does that dramatic standing around thing again, only for ANOTHER blackout. A return to form features Alex Mercer's jeans, while some guy says "we have less than an hour. What's next?" as he walks back and forth in front of Alex Mercer and Alex Mercer's jeans.

"The last person responsible for all of this," Alex Mercer says, pausing because he cannot talk and blink at the same time, "dies tonight." He watches a pair of helicopters engage in a courtship ritual as they bomb the fuck out of some civilians.

"If we make it out of here. Do you think you're ready?" asks some guy.

Averting his innocent eyes from the helicopters as they begin to make new, smaller helicopters, Alex Mercer turns towards some guy, his visage one of a stony stoic who has been informed of what happened with Prototype 2™. "I was made for this" he scowls.

 _vvvvvvvvvvvvvVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV_ IP- **BWOOOOOOOOOOO _UUUUUOOOOOOOOOOO_ UUUM**

[PROTOTYPE]™

Bl _a_ ck

r _e_ d

l _i_ nes

w _o_ rds

 _u_ nderneath

 **Gentek** ™


End file.
